Page 101 of Nothing Compares to the Duke
Chapter Twenty-Four
Deafening cheers drowned out the sound of his own heartbeat. A frantic, wild chorus built from shouts of encouragement to a single demand.
“More,” they cried. “More, more.”
Rhys stood atop his antique cherrywood dining room table with a yard glass to his lips and was doing his damnedest to give the crowd the entertainment they demanded.
He’d only invited ten guests to his London town house, but the party had grown, as his gatherings often did. After returning from the countryside, he’d vowed to never hold another party like this one. He wanted to be a better man, one who took his duties and responsibilities seriously. But this party had been scheduled months in advance. Two friends attending, twin gentlemen he’d met at boarding school, were to celebrate their birthday.
So for this one night, he’d agreed to resume his old life and it taught him one thing quickly. He no longer gave a damn about being the best host in London.
The guests had insisted on frivolity and he’d agreed to a simple drinking game rather than a feat of daring. He’d longed for any entertainment that wouldn’t mean he’d end up hanging from chandeliers or playing human dartboard for a pretty circus performer.
“Keep drinking, Claremont,” someone shouted from the crowd.
He couldn’t blame his friends. After all, he’d invited them and he’d been the one to set the precedent of parties filled with mayhem.
But tonight it was all so bloody loud and exhausting. Tomorrow he would start again living the life he’d come to like. A few ladies teased that he’d reformed his ways.
Perhaps he had. He only wished Bella knew. She was the spark that had changed everything in him.
Bella.Damn it. He tried not to think of her. He wouldn’t. Not tonight.
Tonight he would go on doing what he once did well. Playing the nobleman jester for all those lucky enough to receive an invitation to his party.
“Empty,” he shouted at those crowding around the table, swiped the sleeve of his black velvet suit across his mouth, and lifted the second empty yard glass up in triumph.
“Another!” came a reply, dreadful and immediate.
Lord Somersby, damn him to Hades, handed up another full yard glass of the most disgusting ale Rhys had ever tasted.
Glancing around the crowded room filled with friends, acquaintances, and a few rivals in business and gambling, he put on a smirk filled with false bravado.
Taking the long-necked glass, he happily sloshed as much as he could over the side on the way to his lips. It took a great deal of liquor to get him well and truly soused, and he feared that point was coming soon.
The second glass of ale had felt endless. With this one, he thought he might drown.
Bodies crowded closer. Some guests pounded on the table. Another nudged it with their thigh and some of the ale sloshed onto his face and overexpensive gold-threaded waistcoat.
He kept drinking, letting the warm ale slide down his throat. He’d had so much he could thankfully no longer taste or smell it. His senses only registered the miasma of scents in the room. Sweat, perfume, the smoke of cigars and cheroots, and the burning wax of dozens of candles.
He swallowed again and a wave of dizziness came with the gulp. With his head tipped back, dark spots danced in his vision. He closed his eyes and wished he was upstairs in his bed. Maybe tonight, finally, sleep would come. Restful sleep, uninterrupted by dreams of an auburn-haired beauty who was always just out of reach.
He choked on the last bit of ale. More froth than liquid filled his mouth and his throat refused to let it down. Queasiness came to accompany the dizziness and he stumbled forward on the polished surface of the dining table, dropping the yard glass and its final droplets of beer onto the carpet before he caught his balance and steadied himself.
“Careful, love,” a buxom brunette called up.
Sylvia. Sophia? They’d been close once. Their tryst hadn’t been long but he should have at least remembered her name. He hated being a man who used women for pleasure and couldn’t bother to remember any of them.
“I think the party is over,” he said to her quietly.
She winked and continued to watch him hungrily, as she had all night. Unfortunately for her, his desire for sleep and dreams of Bella was greater than for whatever diversion any woman might provide.
“You must walk the balcony, Claremont.” Somersby spoke up again, wearing that bloody smug smile he’d perfected at university.
“Isn’t it your turn, old chap?”
They’d been rivals at school. Somersby won every test of mental agility. Rhys had won any competition that involved physical strength or speed. But while Rhys accepted his shortcomings, Somersby couldn’t stand to acknowledge his own. Sometimes, Rhys felt certain the man only maintained a facade of friendship in order to make ridiculous wagers intended to make his life miserable.
